


lost in thought

by ineffable_bisexual



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Cutting, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, I wrote this whole thing and forgot to title it, No beta we fall like Crowley, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Harm, Sorry Crowley, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!, TW: Suicide, TW: eating disorder briefly mentioned, Tags Are Hard, seriously this is kind of dark so be careful, tw: self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffable_bisexual/pseuds/ineffable_bisexual
Summary: Crowley has been very sad for a very long time. He reflects on some of his harder times and decides to talk to Aziraphale about them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80





	lost in thought

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure why anyone would want to read this but at least it helped me get out some feels. Also this is a lot of exposition, so sorry.

_A.Z. Fell and Co._ _May, 2021_

Aziraphale was working on his cooking skills. He had never been particularly good at cooking, but found himself having to learn during the pandemic last year as many of his favorite restaurants had closed. Now, he found he rather enjoyed it and often chose to learn to make a new recipe rather than drag Crowley to new restaurant when he wasn’t up for it. Tonight, he was trying his hand at making chips.

Crowley hovered at the angel’s shoulder as he fried up something or other. He didn’t care much what it was, he wasn’t going to be eating it anyway. But he had become rather bored and lonely sprawled on the couch in the other room with no angel to talk to, hence the hovering.

“Be careful, dear boy!” Aziraphale chided. “You’re going to be burned by the oil.”

Crowley stepped back reluctantly. He had been having somewhat of a low day, having woken up a little bit spacey and been unable to shake the fog that clouded his brain. Aziraphale’s words and the thought of being burned roused parts of his mind that he generally tried to keep under wraps around the angel, and he squeezed his eyes shut to banish them. But intrusive thoughts were intrusive thoughts, and soon the potential feeling of white hot pain and images of burns crowded his mind. He took a deep, steadying breath.

Crowley knew Aziraphale could never fully understand. Why did he relish in getting a minor scrape on his human corporation, leaning into it as if his existence depended on it? Why wouldn’t he move away from the stove while the angel cooked, would he want that searing pain on his skin? It would seem sick to Aziraphale. Despicable. Wretched. Pitiful. Right?

Actually, in the early days of the romantic aspect of their relationship, Aziraphale _had_ seen and questioned his scars. And then he had held Crowley as he shattered apart trying to put his pain into words for the first time. He didn’t think it was sick, despicable, wretched, or pitiful, but that was Aziraphale for you; his love for the demon was unconditional. Crowley couldn’t manage to get out more than a few words that first time he was held, but over the years he had been able to share more with the angel as his mind began to bring down the walls it had been building around itself for millennia.

Now, Crowley was able to put on a mostly-real smile for Aziraphale almost every day, and the angel rarely seemed to think that anything was wrong. There was a deep-rooted darkness, though, that lurked in the back of Crowley’s thoughts and at the edges of his vision, that constantly tugged the corners of his mouth down without permission. That’s not to say Crowley didn’t enjoy their time together, of course did. But an eternity of depression doesn’t dissipate overnight, and he had a lot of healing left to do.

There were two “incidents” that Crowley had neglected to bring up to Aziraphale thus far. First, there was the matter of the 14th century. It was well known to Aziraphale that Crowley had detested that particular century, and that as a result he had slept through most of it. He assumed it was because it was rather dull, and he knew how restless his demon could be. Actually, the tail end of the 13th century had been the only time Crowley had discorporated and had required a new issue corporation from Down Below. It wasn’t necessarily an accident.

Crowley knew he couldn’t technically “die” by anything except holy water. At the time, that seemed like an impossible ask, so true suicide was never really on the table. But he did not know what would happen if he killed his human corporation, having never done it before. He expected it would hurt, though, and that was really the point, wasn’t it? He had been slicing and burning his skin for centuries to help temporarily relieve the trauma from the Fall, the torture from Hell and the subsequent years of self-hatred and misery, but he had become numb to it; it wasn’t enough anymore.

It was 1392. It had been a long time since Crowley had last spoken to Aziraphale, and he was losing track of himself, losing his purpose. He couldn’t have said what the last temptation he performed was; he couldn’t probably have even told you what year it was at the time. He hadn’t eaten in hundreds of years and he had never been so thin. He _did_ used to eat, but starving himself soon became just another form of self harm. The only thing that kept him grounded was his pain. And so one night when it all came to a head and the dig of his knife into his thighs barely felt like a scratch, he plunged it into his wrist and dragged it along the vein, tearing it open; then attempted to do the same to the other. He closed his eyes and lay back on the cold floor, feeling his heart pump blood directly out of his thin body and onto the cool stone beneath him. He felt it pool around him and soak into his clothes, draining from him like water from a bathtub. What an odd feeling, he thought, and relished in the new pain. He soon lost consciousness.

Excuses were made to Hell, of course; Crowley was an excellent liar and devastatingly charming (and to charm those in Hell is not an easy feat). He was restored with a brand new corporation that looked identical to his original from Day 1. What Crowley didn’t realize was that a brand new corporation meant that his scars would be erased. He could not explain why he felt something akin to grief when he looked down and realized that his skin was smooth and free of marks, but it made him feel wrong, as if a piece of him were missing.He unhappily resolved that he would mourn his old scars, but take the opportunity to cut deep on fresh skin.

By the time Crowley made it back to Earth, most of the 14th century had passed. He was surprised to find the population to be significantly less dense than he left it, and when he first heard about the Plague, he vomited for three straight days. He grieved deeply for the humans, feeling disgusted in the same way he had with the Ark. He took out his grief on himself, cutting deeper than he ever had before his discorporation, pouring burning hot oil on his skin, becoming thinner and more frail, covered in marks, needing the most pain he could give himself. And then he slept. For decades.

He saw the angel again in the 15th century, and it was like seeing light for the first time in over a hundred years. Crowley knew that he loved Aziraphale, of course, but he also knew that they could never be together romantically due to their respective natures. He also knew that he felt almost normal when he was around the angel, and he could picture himself spending enough time with him to almost become happy, even if that time was spent platonically. The life that he desired for himself was so close, and yet just out of reach. After that, he looked forward to every meeting with the angel to keep him grounded, and even managed to stop hurting for periods of time by telling himself that he would just wait until after he saw Aziraphale again.

But eventually, hundreds of years and many meetings later, the light that Crowley had been reaching toward, that beautiful dream of a life spent with Aziraphale, began to grow cold. They had known each other so long, after all, and if it hadn’t happened by now, well... And Crowley’s mind began to close in on him again, and he plummeted quickly to the same mental state where he had found himself at the end of the 13th century.

Then came the second “incident.” Technically Aziraphale did know about this one, although Crowley had managed to convince him that it was about something else entirely. This was when Crowley asked Aziraphale for holy water. He had honestly never expected Aziraphale to care enough for him to be worried about his safety, so he was rather surprised when the angel not only denied him his request but seemed quite upset about it, too.

Crowley had asked for the holy water because he had decided that it was finally time, that the emotional pain had become unbearable and the physical pain wasn’t enough to curb it anymore. If he couldn’t be with Aziraphale, his sole reason for continuing to exist these last hundreds of years, then he wouldn’t continue to be at all. Not just discorporation this time, but the real true End. He felt that the Arrangement had progressed enough that the angel would have no problem slipping him the weapon; true suicide was finally on the table.

So when Aziraphale said no, it rather put a wrench in his plans.

After that meeting in the park he was left with no holy water, no angel, no dignity to speak of; he only had his trusty knife and the spark of a thought that Aziraphale might actually care for his well-being. As far as Crowley saw it, he could do one of two things: continue to wallow in his own pain and misery until he ultimately discorporated himself again, or capture that spark and cling to it, build on it, and create a better version of himself that Aziraphale might actually want to be around some day.

He chose the latter, and by the time Aziraphale gave him that hideous tartan thermos dozens of years later, Crowley didn’t need it anymore. He stored it away in his flat to actually use it for the purpose that he had explained to Aziraphale, as insurance. It had taken a lot of work to get to that point, and Crowley was by no means healed; mental illness can’t be miracled away, occult being or not. But he was more than the shell of a demon than he had been for the last few hundreds of years; he was discovering himself.

Years passed and many things transpired, second-most notably the near-end of the human world, and first-most notably the beginning of Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s romantic relationship. The beginning of the life that Crowley had hardly even dared to dream about Before.

“My love. You really are hovering, do you know that? I would appreciate a little elbow room, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley’s amber eyes refocused as he surfaced from his reverie. “Sorry, angel.” He took another tentative step back.

He couldn’t help still thinking about these things; he had been addicted to harming himself for hundreds upon hundreds of years. He was grateful that the holy water was gone as it had not been easy to live with it looming so near in his flat for decades. He still often craved pain when he saw a knife, or a match, but the the hunger to do it had dissipated tremendously. And yes, he had relapsed frequently - most recently when he thought he had lost his angel in the bookshop fire - but it wasn’t much compared to his history of harming himself every day, so many times per day. Right now, however, he was proudly two years clean. Almost exactly, actually. It would be two years tomorrow.

Normally he would just keep all of these thoughts firmly locked in his mind, but they had thoroughly transfixed him this time, especially with the two year mark coming up; it would be the longest he had ever gone. He had to say something to Aziraphale.

“Angel, I...”

“Hmmmm?” Aziraphale hummed, fussing about with some paper towels.

“I, uh. Well, I was thinking.”

“I could tell, my dear. You were being awfully quiet.”

Crowley huffed. “I was _thinking_ , that... you know, it’ll be two years tomorrow.”

It didn’t take long for Crowley’s meaning to click in the angel’s mind. He finished his cooking and laid down his utensils, turning to look the demon in the eye. Said demon was not interested in that, and pointedly avoided eye contact.

When he first learned of the mental health issues that Crowley battled on a daily basis, Aziraphale hadn’t known what to say. Or what to do, for that matter. It had been difficult for him to adjust when they started living together and Crowley would have bad days, periodically zoning out, eyes glazing over, not quite there. The angel was quite jumpy and nervous on those days at first, but he learned how to deal; now he radiated the perfect balance of love, calm, and patience when Crowley wasn’t doing well.

“And how do you feel about that, my love?” he asked.

Truthfully, Crowley felt very sweaty. Talking about depression with the angel was one thing, but self harm felt so personal, and it still made him very anxious to discuss. He cleared his throat. “I’m...glad.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m glad, too. I’m so, so very proud of you. You’ve come so far and I love you so much.”

“Ngk.” Crowley buried his face into his angel’s neck, red-faced. The angel wrapped his arms around him and cuddled him close. “There’s...other things I should tell you, though,” Crowley added.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Do you want to get your food, and - and we can sit down?”

“Of course.”

The angel fixed himself a plate and eyed Crowley curiously and with caution as they settled on the couch. And then Crowley began to tell Aziraphale about the 14th century. It was very difficult to get the words out at first, but once he got past the main discorporation bit he found that the rest came spilling out of him. Against his better judgment, he also told the angel about the real reason behind asking for the holy water. He did not mention his issues with food; his relationship with eating had become so complex and confusing, even to himself, that he decided to hold off on that conversation for another day.

Aziraphale worked very hard to contain his emotions and facial expressions during this conversation, but his heart was absolutely shattering the whole time. How could he have allowed this to happen? He never checked up on the demon in the 14th century, and he could have done so easily. He cursed himself for not following his instinct with the holy water, suicide had been the first thought he had and he had been right after all. How foolish and stupid and self-centered he was!

When Crowley finally finished speaking, Aziraphale said nothing. His throat felt too tight and he didn’t know how to reply anyway. He pulled the demon in close, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder so that he couldn’t see his eyes welling up with tears and finally spilling over. He squeezed Crowley tightly and held him there for who knows how long, until his own tears dried in tracks on his cheeks and his demon relaxed in his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he said finally, still not pulling back.

Crowley shook his head vehemently against his shoulder. “S’not your fault, angel. It’s not.”

Aziraphale still felt guilty. He sniffed. “I love you so much and I’m so grateful that you’re here with me now. I will never let you go through something like that alone again.”

“I love you, angel. I’m sorry...”

“Don’t ever be sorry, my love. I know that I will never fully understand your experiences but I want you to know that they are valid, and they are not your fault. I only wish that I had been more attentive then; I could have been there for you.” He didn’t mention his regrets about the holy water; he wasn’t ready to go there.

“No, things were different then. You couldn’t have known.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. He finally leaned back to look the demon in the eye.

“Crowley, how have you felt recently? I know that I haven’t asked you in a while.”

Crowley shrugged. “The same, I guess. Some days are worse than others. Sometimes-“ he looked away, “sometimes I just want to feel my skin burn, and watch myself bleed. I can’t really explain it. I...enjoy it, I think...You must think I’m disgusting.”

Aziraphale’s expression was deeply sympathetic. “Of course I don’t think that,” he replied softly. “You know I don’t. I know that it’s an addiction, as much a disease as any other. But I’m proud of you for not acting on those feelings.”

Crowley escaped back into the hug, pushing his face, hot with embarrassment, into his angel’s shoulder. “You don’t hate me?”

“Oh please,” Aziraphale tutted, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s hair and not justifying the silly question with more of an answer. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Crowley. I know it must have been difficult.”

“Ngk.”

“Would you like to watch a movie, my dear?”

“...yeah.”

Aziraphale shifted so that Crowley could lay his head in his lap, running his fingers through bright red hair as he turned on the television. The demon sighed, and Aziraphale’s heart felt full with love and heavy with sadness. He would always be there for Crowley, he vowed, until the end of their very long days. The demon would never be alone again.


End file.
